


These Streets

by crystalkuria



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: (hopefully), Abuse, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Eren Yeager Has Heterochromia Iridum, Eventual Romance, Family Drama, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Jean makes bad decisions, M/M, Physical Abuse, Slow Build, Triggers, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-30
Updated: 2015-06-30
Packaged: 2018-04-07 00:15:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4242141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crystalkuria/pseuds/crystalkuria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of Jean Kirschtein and the boy in aisle three.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Streets

Tires fell into a rhythm upon the rain-slicked road of street Karanese. It would’ve been better, Jean mused, if everything was silent. The sky was dark and painted with stars, the street lamps were dim, yet the obnoxiously loud slurps coming from the backseat shattered the atmosphere. It was the time of night where Jean would’ve been asleep, safely hidden within the blankets of his bed. But thanks to the fact that his only friends know where he lives, and they have no problem pulling a romance trope and chucking stones at his bedroom window halfway through the night, he’s now in front seat of his father’s silver convertible.

The windows are rolled down and the top has disappeared, due to Connie’s persisting. They’d already stopped at Burger King and Connie, feeling excessively joyful and apparently drunk on sleep deprivation, had nearly grilled the poor woman at the drive-thru about anything that came to his mind. Jean was grateful that it was only the four of them-- himself, Connie and his girlfriend, and a freckled girl named Ymir.

“ _Mmf,_ Jean,” Connie shouted around his mouthful of burger, giving a few sharp kicks to the back of Jean’s seat to make sure he had his attention.

Jean barely hummed back a response before Connie was bubbling with words, “Where arf we goin’ next?”

Jean thought about it. More than anything, he wanted to go home. The air from outside was starting to get cold the further they got into the night. Even if Jean was wearing his thickest sweater, his neck was starting to prickle from the decreasing temperature, and his bitten-raw lips were beginning to quiver. He thought about going home. Swamping himself in his familiar blankets and burrowing deep inside, falling asleep with the warmth of the house. He imagined how relieved he would feel-- but a single glance at a seemingly distraught Sasha in the backseat had him biting his tongue.

“We’re not going _back,_ are we?,” she narrowed her eyes and whined doubtfully.

Jean ran a hand through his greasy hair. His mind wandered to relief. Then it wandered to having fun with his friends like they always used to. Now that it was officially summer and they only had tv-ridden parents to ‘ _watch_ ’ them, they were practically free. They could go back to smashing mailboxes and stealing extra fries and not sleeping for weeks. Even if it would be just the four of them instead of the original nine, it really wouldn’t be any less exhilarating.

Jean debated. He could afford this, for one night. Then he could go home and sleep all he wanted.

“Alright,” he sighed, and Connie raised a fist in victory, “Where to?”

Sasha squealed, nearly shoving Connie out of the way in her happy rush to sit up. She placed a hand on both of the front seats, leaning forward so that the upper half of her body slid between Jean’s and Ymir’s. But instead of staying still, she reached forward and flipped a finger against the volume dial, edging it up to nearly full volume.

Before Jean could jump forward to turn it down again and hiss out a complaint, Ymir covered the dials with her hands and piped up.

“How about that skate place?,” she flashed a grin.

“You mean the skating _rink,_ ” Jean questioned over the music, “Utopia?”

Ymir nodded.

“I don’t have the money for all of us,” he admitted with a shout, “And Sasha, turn that shit down!”

Sasha leaned forward again and pried Ymir’s fingers away from the radio, “Then where are we gonna go? I had my money on the skate place,” and then she stumbled over her words when Jean gave her a pointed look, “Skating rink-- and I mean figurative money.”

“It’s fine,” Jean muttered.

He curved left and entered a new street, and gave a single glance as the tires gained more distance. There were a few windows still bright and it looked like Dieter, one of few local floral shops, still hadn’t closed. He slowed down and let the intermission between conversation sink in, finding peace in the sudden quiet.

It was the start of summer, three years ago, when he’d met all of these people. It wasn’t platonic love at first sight, of course-- he had hated Connie Springer’s guts at the beginning. He had been crushing on Sasha and crushing hard. He’d gone out of his way to buy food on his way to school for her, only to get there and find out that Connie had already gotten her something ten times better. He would admit that he was a brat when he’d met his friends, and probably more annoying than he was now, if anything Connie’s memories of him complaining that he’d stolen Sasha away were anything to go by.

But meeting Ymir was worse.

He could never tell whether she was joking or telling the truth, and he still can’t tell even to this day. She used to like to purposely bump into him and flick his narrow nose whenever she got the chance. But the best thing was that she was honest no matter what, even if he could never forgive her for that one time he was in detention and she ‘ _covered_ ’ for him by telling his parents that he was at Walmart stealing lawnmowers.

Jean took a chance and returned the music to blasting. He tapped his fingers against the steering wheels and bit back a smile as Connie began belting out the lyrics, arm thrown around Sasha’s shoulders. The convertible now reeked of fast-food and Jean figured that as soon as he got the old thing back in the garage, he’d have to drown it in one of the cheap half-empty Febreze cans that his father always had lying around.

He felt a smile on his thin lips as he lost himself in the upbeat positivity of the song, the lyrics practically dripping with optimism-- he wondered what had happen to the smooth, low-voiced song that had been only a few moments earlier. Even Ymir, who had been gazing out the window and occasionally adding input to the conversation, smiled a little and if Jean looked hard enough, he swore he heard her humming.

It felt great to do this again, to have his heart get all warm inside of his chest and to forget everything with his friends. But it was great until Connie suddenly froze, eyes cast down and shock etched over his pale features. Jean, in confusion, almost stopped the car. But he kept his foot on the pedal and rolled the volume back down to question, “What’s wrong?”

“I-- uh,” Connie sputtered, and Sasha peered over his shoulder before scooting back a little. Now Jean’s heart started up and he almost jumped when Ymir gave a quick glance to the backseat before sneering and doing nothing at all to cease her laughter.

“ _What?_ ” Jean demanded, grip tightening on the steering wheel.

“Looks like it’ll stain,” Ymir snorted.

Now that got Jean panicking. In a rush, he thought of it : going home and thinking everything’s alright, thinking that there was no way his father could possibly find out that he’d taken his beloved convertible out for a midnight test-drive (because there would be evidence), only to find out that some fucker named Connie had spilled something on the seats.

“What will stain?,” Jean tried to keep his voice calm.

“Jean, I am so sorry-- I didn’t mean t-to, I promise--”

“Connie,” Jean lowered his voice, “ _What did you do?_ ”

“Don’t get mad,” Sasha pleaded, but Jean shifted his eyes to her through the rear-view mirror in a way that made her instantly shut up. “Connie spilled his drink.”

With those words, Jean’s heart almost stopped.

His first thought was to throw himself out of the car. It seemed that something was always hellbent on trying to end his life-- maybe he was cursed by that one woman in that movie about crazy desert lizards. He hardly believed it, but as he hit his head against the steering wheel, and Ymir kept choking on her own laughter, it didn’t seem like such a bad theory.

“But we can clean it, right, Jean?,” Sasha egged, as optimistic as that goddamn pop song.

“I don’t know,” his voice was muffled.

“We just gotta hurry before it dries?”

“I don’t _know._ ”

He couldn’t fucking believe it. It was fault, he asked for this, and he fucking knew it. He’d been around the other three of them long enough know how to put up with their shit and charms, to deal with all the temptation to play video games or even jump off the golden gate bridge with them instead of helping his mother around the house or finish his homework. So why, on this particular Tuesday night, had he even _agreed_ to sneak out to join them? He should have known something bad would happen. Yet he briefly tries to reassure himself with the idea that it’s all just karma.

“Oh _look,_ Jean,” Ymir chortles, snapping him away from his own thoughts, “We can go there!”

Jean looks up, the tiniest spark of hope pulsing through his veins. He squints through the windshield and into the dimness of the night to see a small store, almost hidden between to larger stores. It’s a convenience store, and if the light coming from inside was anything to go by, it was still open.

A crease between Jean’s eyebrows, and a frown on his lips.

“Why the _fuck_ would we go there?”

“We could get some cleaning supplies,” Sasha nudges, offering a smile.

“We don’t even know if they’re open,” he says despite his thoughts, “And who goes to the store in the middle of the night for cleaning supplies?”

Jean slowed the car as they neared the tiny shop.

“Us, I guess,” Connie spoke.

“Connie, give me your money,” Jean replied suddenly.

Connie made a surprised sound, but dealt with situation, and dug through his pockets to place a few crumpled twenties and three quarters into Jean’s flat palm. Jean bit back a thanks and swerved to the right, nearly missing the curb, and stopped the curb. It was then parked in front of the convenience store, one whose small painted lettering was chipping and nearly unintelligible.

The lights from inside were even brighter then, and Jean could clearly see the tall shelves, lined with junk food, and a counter at the front. He couldn’t see a single person, but he pushed his doubts aside and opened the car door. The others did the same, and the loud noises of the doors slamming shut came prior to the sound of a high-pitched bell ringing as Jean opened the door to the shop.

It was empty. It was so quiet that Jean could hear his own heart pounding in his ears. The linoleum floor was considerably shiny, and everyone’s shoes squeaked against it. Jean felt a chill creep down his spine at the eeriness of it all-- just like from one of Connie’s horror films. A group of friends stumble upon an abandoned shop only to have to fight for survival half an hour later. But Jean only muttered a curse for both Connie’s choice of movies and how they’re messing with his head, and how he can’t keep a good grip on a goddamn bottle.

“ _Hello,_ ” Sasha called out, Connie interrupting her with a ‘ _that’s the only thing you_ don’t _say!_ ’

“We’re here to rob your store and take all your money,” Ymir snorted out.

Jean huffed at the entire situation. If whoever worked here didn’t hurry up and come out soon, he’d take what he needed by his own damn self, and without paying at all.

Jean startled and all the breath he had left him in a sharp gasp when a soft voice replied, “I hope not.”

“Holy fucking shit,” Ymir muttered, while Jean whipped around in surprise to get a look at the stranger.

The male stood there, near the glass box of donuts, a broom perched at his side. His bright eyes danced between all four of them, unadulterated confusion seeping into them. His complexion was a rich tone of warm brown, his lips full, and although he was short-- maybe at least an inch under Connie’s height, he made up for his stature with a strange bravery. Jean felt it in his bones but could only arch an eyebrow at the feeling. The other stood there waiting for an answer, and didn’t hold any hint of apprehension.

Ymir’s words did him no justice.

“Heeeey,” Connie broke in awkwardly, stepping forward. He smiled brightly, “I’m Connie. We’re looking for the cleaning section.’

Eren seemed unfazed by the other male, and firmly said, “Eren. We’re closing soon.”

“We need cleaning supplies,” Jean replied, not a second off-beat.

“Why are you even here this late?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he snapped back, before turning away. He walked right past Eren and into the first aisle. He was upset. He wondered that if something happened like this, maybe it would only lead to another sharp turn of events, even worse than before. His parents might be awake right now. He scanned his eyes over each of the items on the shelves, walking quickly. To his dismay, all he saw were candy bars and various bags of chips. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and was ready to turn the corner when he heard Eren call to him, “It’s on aisle three!”

Jean huffed, eyebrows sloping together, but gave half a heart to trust Eren’s words. Instead of making his way into the next aisle, he crossed the short distance to the third aisle. He wasn’t exactly surprised to find that Eren was right, and he began searching for the most cheap and effective items. He glowered at the prices and skimmed his fingers over the sleek, hard covers of bottles and the cardboard of colorful tissue boxes.

After a while of looking and mental discussion, he picked out a medium-sized bottle of regular dish soap, a bright orange cloth, and went back to the freezer to grab a bottle of water. He made his way to the front of the store, where Ymir was leaning against the doorframe, Sasha and Connie were perched on top of the front counter, and Eren was waiting behind it. Jean set everything he needed on top of it and shrugged out Connie’s money, while Eren set to work on scanning the stuff.

“I told him why we’re here,” Ymir announced.

“Okay,” Jean grumbled back.

Eren shoved the two bottles into a plastic bag and was about to do the same with the cloth, when it fell out of his hand, “Your dad’s going to kill you.”

“‘S none of your business. We’re leaving after this.”

Eren smiled, holding out his hand for the money. Jean set one of the twenties into it, and wasted no time in grabbing up the bag. He twisted the handles around his fingers as he pushed open the door, the cool air of the night suddenly unfamiliar. The sky looked a little darker than he remembered. He blamed it on the bright lamps that hung down from the ceiling of the shop, and opened the door to the convertible while his friends bid farewell to Eren.

When he gave a glance back, Eren had on a crooked smile, and was waving goodbye.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**____________________________________ **

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The butter melted on his tongue. His teeth scraped against the food, which scratched his tongue and maybe was a little stale, but he chewed and swallowed it all down dry. He’d gotten home, hungrier than before even after eating two cheeseburgers earlier, and had made himself toast before setting to work. His hands were now soapy and his arm ached. He was tired as hell and had to fight to keep his eyes open, but he kept working as quietly as he could, victory bubbling up inside of him when he squinted and saw that stain was slowly vanishing.

He’d dropped everyone off at their respective houses only half an hour ago, and had been working at the mark on the backseat for the entire time. According to his 9%-charged phone, he had a few hours left before the sun rose. His parents, who were heavy sleepers (one of Jean’s newfound advantages) would hopefully stay asleep until he was done.

The smell of soap was thick in the air, until Jean washed it away with one of the Febreze bottles he found in the corner of the garage, lightly shut the car door, and turned off the lights in the tiny area. He jogged up the stairs to the large door on his right, and opened it carefully, wincing at the creak it gave in protest, before hurriedly shutting it behind him.

He crept into the kitchen, scrubbing his hands clean under the steady stream of cold water that came from his sink. He didn’t bother drying them before cracking open the fridge and fishing through the new stock of food his mom had bought a few days ago. She’d made him an omelet just that morning, but when he took a good look at it, his tongue imagined the taste and he realized he didn’t have a craving for it. He peered around, shifting the different packages of food and wrapped sandwiches around, wetting his lips in anticipation. His hands flitted to the left and he went to grab one of the well-hidden kitkats his mother thought she’d snuck away from his line of vision the last time they went shopping, and suddenly he was hungrier than before. He snatched the candy up and paid no attention when the refrigerator door shut a little loudly, instead focusing all his attention on peeling the red cover off the chocolate.

He froze when he heard harsh breathing.

He looked up, feet rooted to the tile floor, and when his mind registered a figure in the darkness, he instantly placed his arm by his side to hide the stolen food, standing up a little straighter. He could see the person clearer when they kept walking forward, into the moonlight that was bleeding through the window. Jean sighed in relief when he saw that it was only his mother. He placed the kitkat on the counter in front of him, making his way past it, wondering momentarily if his mother was sleepwalking.

He bit his lip when he realized that she wasn’t walking.

She was _wobbling._

Jean rushed forward, stumbling over his feet, but kept going so that he could meet her halfway in the living room.

“Mom,” he pressed firmly.

“What are you still doing up, Jean?”

Her voice shook slightly. She grabbed at his arms to steady herself. Her breath was bated and her entire body seemed off balance-- she wasn’t _that_ old. Jean parted his lips to question what was wrong, but she abruptly perked up, eyes widening drastically. She stared up at Jean, eyes a little unfocused, but big and scared all the same. Fear welled up in his heart, inwardly thinking of all the things that could have frightened her-- hopefully a bad dream, or maybe she heard one of the rogue dogs that come and go--

“Jean,” she choked out, her grip on his wrist slackening and her body tensing, “Get behind the couch.”

His eyebrows shot up.

“Mom, what--”

“Jean,” she hissed out, “ _Get behind the couch._ ”

Despite his inner turmoil of doubt, he nodded fast, and shakily ran to the family couch. He ducked behind it, crouched down, but peered over it hesitantly. He watched in uncertainty as his mother stood in the middle of the room, still as a statue, but breathing still so loud. He figured that she must be having the night terrors, although that hadn’t happened in a long, _long_ time, and even then it had only happened once. He waited a few more seconds, expecting something crazy to happen, but when nothing did, he began to rise out from his spot.

But time stopped when the stairs creaked.

He saw another figure enter the room, walking completely out of balance. It was clear that the figure was his father, and Jean frowned, pondering what could’ve his mom afraid of his _dad._

There was nothing to be afraid of-- at least, not for his mom. Jean had been afraid of his dad many times before, but that was only when he’d broken a rule. But now his own mother stood fear-stricken in the living room, not moving a muscle, but frightened to death. Jean blinked slowly, observing every move his father made. He swallowed thickly when his father stepped fully into the living room, and became visible.

Jean’s heart caught flame when he saw the beer can in his father’s hand.

All the blood drained from his face.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**__________________________________**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was the slap of hand on skin. It was the echo that it left, it was the taste of war on Jean’s tongue, it was the words that he held back in his constricting throat. It was the noises and the screams that were muffled. It was his heart, slamming against his ribcage, his bones threatening to give way.

It was the ache in his gut he got when he ran too much.

It was the feet on the floor.. It was the foul words and the demanding insults and the crinkling of the beer can hitting the floor. It was dark liquid, reeking of labored nights and dizzy minds, sloshing and trickling between the floorboards. It was humming, knees to the chest, fists to the stomach, struggling. Sickly-sweet. It was eyes clenched tight, rocking forward and backward, covering ears and blocking out the noise of struggle.

_dontlookdontlookdontlook_

 

 

 

 

 

 

**__________________________________**

 

 

 

 

 

 

The gauze slid easily around his mother’s wrist. His father was out cold on the floor. Jean’s slender fingers trembled when he pressed bandaids to his mother’s left leg. Bruises were edging their way in around her body. It hurt to breathe when he bandaged her forehead. She was falling asleep, eyes glazed over, but every so often she’d cringe in pain. She coughed a few times, too, but the sounds were frail and died off easily.

Jean’s tongue swelled with words.

“Jean,” she tried.

He nodded gently. He was still in shock, still stuck in time, still crouched behind the couch and trying not to break down. At least, he was in his mind. 

“Jean-boy,” she tried again, before simmering into a fit of coughs.

He picked up the bandaid wrappers slowly, memorizing the feeling when his fingers met the paper-thin material.

“I’m calling the police,” he finally murmured.

She straightened up instantly. Panic flooded her eyes, and even though it clearly pained her to do so, she sat up. She willed herself to calm down. Eventually, she put a hand on Jean’s shoulder and the other on his cheek, turning his head so that he looked at her. She looked broken but determined, and Jean sat still at the look she gave him.

“Don’t.”

His own eyes widened in shock.

“Mom,” he said sharply.

“I know how this sounds, baby, but you _need_ to trust me.”

“ _Mom,_ ” he began.

“Jean, listen to me,” she quipped sternly. “It’s better if we stay here.”

“How?,” he stared back in disbelief. He tried to wrap his mind around the idea, tried to understand, but the thought of staying here and doing absolutely nothing while his own mother had gotten hurt was terrifying. His mind was screaming to just pick up his mother and run to the nearest police station before his father awoke.

“You won’t understand,” she sighed quietly.

“Tell me then,” he retorted, “Tell me how this is better. Help me understand.”

His mother swallowed thickly. She dropped her gaze to the ground, her hands disappearing from his shoulder and face. The silence rewinded, and Jean’s words instantly died on his tongue. He waited, anticipated, his mother to answer. Seconds came and went. She fidgeted with her fingers in her lap and Jean could do nothing watch as shining tears welled up in her eyes. 

“Mom,” he choked out. He reached out and brushed his own fingers on her shoulder, “I promise I won’t tell anyone.”

She nodded.

The bandages crinkled as she shifted her hands. Jean’s eyes burned. It became harder to swallow and harder to see. 

“I _promise._ ”

She sniffled.

Then she looked up, hurriedly rubbing away her own tears. Only a few were left, and Jean felt his heart shrink when he saw that they trickled over fresh bruises.

“Thank you,” she responded breathlessly. Petals of sunflowers and relief were the soft undertones of her words. She reached out, placing her slowly aging hand upon his, and offered a reassuring smile. “But don’t you have work?”

Jean groaned at the word.

He took out his phone in an instant, the bright light of the screen breaking through the darkness, and found the time to be true. 

“I don’t have to go,” he told her as he slid his phone back into his pocket, “And I don’t think it’s safe for you to be here alone, mom. He could wake up and--”

Without a word, she nods again.

“I know,” she tells him. “But I’ll have my phone by me the entire time, so if anything happens…”

“Okay,” Jean breathes.

Then, he feels his lips curve back into a frown.

“But isn’t your phone upstairs?,” and then it hits him, “Mom, are you sure you can--”

“I’m _alright_ , Jean,” she cuts him off with a wave of her hand, “Honestly, when did you turn into such a worrier? I’m pretty sure I never raised you like that, and have a little faith in me. It isn’t that bad, Jean-boy-- I can walk up the _stairs._ ”

Jean gave a glance to the man on the floor. He found it hard to swallow.

“You’ll tell me what happened when I get back, right?”

His mother tried to smile.

“Of course. Now, go to work!”

“ _Okay_ ,” he replies, and if it wasn’t for the situation, he would’ve laughed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**__________________________________**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> havent written in a while so i hope this is ok


End file.
